


Poppies

by miceenscene



Series: Blooming in Adversity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi-perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miceenscene/pseuds/miceenscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's suicide, John Watson is lost in a fog of grief, regret, and guilt. It doesn't appear like there will be anyway out, until he meets Mary Morstan, the woman with the poppy colored hair. But how will Sherlock and Moriarty's return affect the budding relationship?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cream, No Sugar

_The first time I saw John Watson was a Wednesday in March.  It was raining that day, like it seems to most days in London during the spring.  He was wearing a brown jacket with leather patches on the elbows._

_I don’t normally buy tea, I prefer to make my own.  But that morning I had run out and it was just easier to stop by some place on the way to work._

_“Earl Grey with cream, no sugar.” The barista called out, setting the cup on the counter and walking away.  I picked up my umbrella and hurried my way to the counter.  But my hand wasn’t the only one reaching for the cup._

_I quickly looked at the owner and found he was looking back at me._

_“Sorry.” he said, quickly retracting his hand._

_“Oh, no. You go ahead.” I gestured to the cup._

_“No, it’s fine. I have to wait for another order.” He assured._

_“You’re sure?” I asked.  He smiled. That was the first time he smiled at me.  It was an honest smile, the kind that makes you happy to see it, one of those smiles that you can’t help but returning._

_“I’m sure.” He nodded and stepped back.  I picked up the cup._

_“Thank you.” I smiled and walked out the door._

_  
_

Her hair was the color of poppies.  My mother used to grow them when I was a boy in a bed next to the house.  I remember her complaining about how she could never get the deep red hue that she wanted; they always came out a soft red-orange color.  The exact color of this woman’s hair.

She smiled a small smile then turned away.  I watched her leave the coffee shop, walk down the street and turn around the corner.

I stopped by that coffee shop everyday for the next three weeks, hoping to find her.  But she never was there.

Eventually, I had to stop going because I was running out of money, buying tea everyday from a coffee house does not fit into an army pension budget.

But I never stopped looking for the woman with the poppy-colored hair.

 

_The next time I saw John Watson was a month later.  Except this time he was on the cover of the London Times.  He was standing with a tall dark haired man that I did not recognize.  I quickly bought the paper and pored over the article as I walked.  Apparently, he and his friend, Sherlock Holmes, had solved a very important case for Scotland Yard, which I probably should have already heard about.  But being a pilot for Air England and consequently spending only a few days in London at a time doesn’t afford much time to pay attention to the news.  Additionally, most of the time the news bores me to death, but not this time.  This was exciting._

_At the bottom of the article was a link to the blog that John ran for the team, and as soon as we landed in Washington that evening and I was in my hotel, I found the blog._

_I was hooked._

_Even though I had a 7:30 flight back to England the next day, I spent the majority of the night reading page after page of John’s stories.  And through the next few months, I followed their saga.  It was like a mystery novel that unfolded before my eyes, every new case seemed more exciting than the last.  I read the papers, each article filled with glowing descriptions of Sherlock’s genius.  The detective and his blogger were London’s very own Batman and Robin.  They even had a Joker: Jim Moriarty.  I was as outraged as everyone else when he walked away free after his trial.  But even then, I knew that somehow Sherlock and John would find a way to bring about justice.  Everyone else seemed to think so too; at least they did at first._

_It started out as rumors, whispers, like it always seems to start.  What began as awe-filled wonderings morphed into cynical questions of just how Sherlock did it.  I read those articles too, but I didn’t believe them.  Somehow I just knew that John, even from the brief time that I met him, would never side with a liar.  I kept up hoping for the day that Batman and Robin would win, but instead they were defeated._

_  
_

“Good-bye, John.” He said, pausing then tossing the phone behind him on the roof.

I watched, frozen with terror, as Sherlock took a deep breath then leapt off the building.  The black coat flowed sadistically behind him like some sort of cape.  A thousand ways to save him ran through my mind, but my feet wouldn’t move.  They were frozen to the ground as I struggled to run to him.  As he quickly grew closer, I could see the rare expression of fear in his eyes.  The sound of a body-hitting pavement woke me with a gasp.

I had only seen him jump once, but I had relived the moment at least a thousand times.  Every time, I was too late.  I was too late to stop him, too late to help him, too late to protect him.  And he was gone.

He left me here, sitting alone in a fog, trying to pick up the pieces of my life.

But somehow he had managed to place himself in almost every part of it.  It’s hard to put a building back together when someone has taken away all your materials.  So I drifted, like a boat lost in fog.

 

To Be Continued…


	2. Lighthouse

_The next time I saw John Watson was a year and a half later. It was a Friday afternoon and the sun was shining. I had the weekend off and was meandering my way around London. I found myself at the coffee shop where I first met John and he was there._

_  
He was sitting by himself in one of the comfortable chairs. A book was in his hand and a cup of presumably tea on the table next to him. A cane was leaning against his chair and a look of great concentration on his face. Though he seemed to be reading, he didn’t turn a page the entire time I waited in line to order and for my own tea._

_  
Holding the warm cup in my hand, I debated whether to leave or at least say hi. Before I really decided, I found myself approaching him and saying,_

_  
“I have my own tea this time so I don’t have to take yours.”_

_  
It had only been two years since I had last seen John in person but he seemed to have aged almost ten. Large dark circles were under his eyes, and lines had been carved around his mouth. His gaze was glazed over; it was like my father’s gaze when he was drunk and missing my mother._

_  
But John blinked a few times and a spark of recognition showed in his eyes._

_  
“Poppies.” He said, quietly almost to himself. Then he shook his head and sat up straighter, attempting to look less empty._

_  
“May I sit with you?” I asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. He blinked a few more times then nodded._

_  
“Yes, of course.”_

_  
“I’m Mary, by the way.” I said as I sat. “Mary Morstan.” I smiled, hoping to receive another one of his honest smiles. But it was absent from his face._

_  
_

Mary. Her name was Mary. The poppy-haired woman’s name was Mary. Somehow my mind became fixated on this fact and it took a moment for me to properly respond. The fog made it hard to think quickly.

  
“I’m John Wa-”

  
“Watson. I know.” She looked down at her tea and the hint of a blush ran along her hairline. “I…read your blog.” She looked back up and smiled a little. Something inside of me desperately wanted to return that smile, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I nodded a few times and glanced down at my book before setting it aside.

  
“So…” she began, trying to make polite conversation. “What have you been up to lately?”

  
“You’re looking at it.” I said, more sullenly than I intended.

  
“Oh.” She said in a small voice, stirring her tea some more and looking around. I shook my head.

  
“I’m sorry, Mary.” I apologized. I may have been hurting but it wasn’t an excuse to hurt others. “Since Sherlock’s death…life has been hard.” I looked down, unsure of why I was telling her, a practical stranger, but somehow that made it easier. “I keep hoping that it’ll get easier, but it doesn’t.” I looked back to her, expecting to see some form of pity, which I was rather sick of receiving, but her pale green eyes were filled with understanding.

  
“I get it.” She said, after a moment. “I won’t pretend that our situations are similar at all. But when my Mum died, I too hoped that life would just become easier, or at least normal. But I found that if you want life to change you have to do more than hope; you have to fight. Or you become like my Dad, who’s still hoping for change after 25 years.”

  
I stared at her for a minute. After Sherlock’s death, people tried to offer little platitudes, phrases that are supposed to be comforting and helpful. They were often more frustrating than anything else. But Mary’s words. Those were the first that I had heard that had some use to them. They weren’t a balm to stop the hurt, but a push to get going.

  
She blushed again and coughed. “Who would have known it’s National Tell-A-Stranger-Your-Darkest-Secrets Day?”

  
“It’s all right.” I said, quickly. I nodded. “It’s all fine.” She smiled and I attempted to return it, to fight. But the fog was thick and the smile didn’t come out quite right.  
I glanced down at my watch and frowned. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d be late for my meeting with my therapist. “I’m afraid I need to go now.” I said, hesitantly. She nodded and quickly stood up, but she waited for me to slowly stand and walked with me out of the shop.

  
“Well…I’ll see you around.” She said with another smile and a wave. Then she turned around and started leaving.

  
“Wait!” I called out before she went too far. She turned around and it almost felt like I was looking at my last chance for finding a way out, a way back. I hobbled forward, not sure how to even ask what it was that I was wanting. It had been a long time since I had spent time with anyone attempting to have fun. “Can…can I see you again?”

  
“There’s a concert in the park tomorrow. Want to come with me?”

  
“Yes.” I said, a little too quickly. Her smile grew bigger.

  
“I’ll be by your flat at 2 tomorrow.” And then she left.

 

 

To Be Continued…


	3. Curry

_I saw John the next day at the concert, but it was only the beginning.  Every time I was in London, I spent time with him. I think it was only on that second date that he learned of my old RAF days, and the disappointment they caused my father.  There’s something about the military that seems to bond people together, but it was more than that with John.  He was so easy to talk to.  He seemed to feel the same way.  We could spend hours upon hours just talking about anything to everything._

_It was amazing to watch the improvement in John over the ensuing months, but he was still not the same person or anywhere close.  Some days were worse than other days.  Those dark circles hung under his eyes.  The life seemed to be missing from him._

_One Saturday evening in late November, I was invited over to 221B Baker Street.  He had been to my flat several times, but somehow this seemed more special, like I was being trusted with a special secret.  It was to be a quiet evening in, just making dinner and spending time together.  The moment he opened the door I could see that it had been a bad day.  So I quickly pulled him in a hug and whispered in his ear,_

_“Hello, John.”_

___“Mary.” He responded, the sound of relief in his voice.  We stayed that way for a bit till I stepped back and looked at him._

_“So, do you like curry?” I held up the back of groceries I had brought with me._

___“I hope so.” He teased, a slight smile on his face, before taking the bag from me and limping up the stairs.  I followed him into the flat, taking in every detail._

_It was very clean, yet not organized.  Stacks of books and papers were scattered about various tables and the floor.  Except for one table that had been meticulously cleaned off, and set for two.  I noticed the wall behind me, with the yellow spray paint smiley face and…_

_“Are those bullet holes?” I asked.  John looked at the wall from the kitchen.  He nodded, as if every flat had bullet holes in the wall.  I decided it was best to ignore the décor and headed to the kitchen._

_Dinner was a quiet affair, John being preoccupied with the dark rain cloud that seemed to hover above him.  Usually, I was able to bring him out of it by asking the right question, but there seemed to be no words to say._

_Eventually, we ended up in the living room, John in his usual chair and I in his lap with his head resting on my shoulder.  I ran my fingers through his short hair as I searched for the words to help him._

_“What happened, John?” I asked, quietly so as not to jolt him out of reverie.  He sighed, shook his head and took my free hand, turning it over and tracing the lines on my palm._

_“Some days are better than others.” He said, enigmatically.  I thought about that for a bit._

_“True. But you haven’t had a day this bad in quite a while.” I leaned so I could look him in the eyes. “What happened?”_

___He looked at me for a while then finally answered, “The dream.  It changed again… I … I was him.  It was so real.” His eyes got a far away look in them as he relived the terror. “I could feel the breeze on my face, the edge of the building beneath my shoes.  The split-second sensation of flight till falling.” He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath.  “I always wake up before hitting the ground, but every time I close my eyes…” a tear ran down his cheek and he swallowed hard. “I can see him. There on the sidewalk, bleeding.  …Dying.  And there’s nothing I can do.” Another tear followed, which I wiped away.  But too many came for me to wipe away, so I simply held him till he fell asleep in my arms._

I have a vague recollection of Mary gently waking me from a dreamless sleep and helping me into bed.  She tried to say goodnight and leave, but I couldn’t let her go.  Even in my half-conscious state I knew she was the reason the dreams had kept their distance.  We fell asleep together with her head on my shoulder, and my thumb on her wrist, feeling her steady calming pulse.

However, it wasn’t until the next morning when I woke up feeling more rested than I had in months, that I realized what I had done.  Mary was still asleep next to me, her beautiful hair fanned across the white pillowcase.  I watched her for a while, marveling at her features completely relaxed in peace.  I gently ran the backs of two fingers across her cheek and her eyes shot open and she jerked upright.  Military habits die hard.

Mary blinked a few times and looked around the room, confused.  She looked to me and her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Good morning.” I said, sitting up as well.

“Morning.” She replied, running a hand through her long hair.  She was quiet for a moment and then laughed.

“What is it?”

“I come over for dinner and don’t leave till the next morning. What will the neighbors think?” She laughed again, her green eyes twinkling in the morning sun.

“I guess I didn’t think of that last night…” We laughed together.  I had almost forgotten how good it felt, to laugh.  She grew serious when she looked at me.

“Any dreams?” she asked.  I paused and thought.

“None.”

__

To Be Continued…


	4. Impossible

_Quicker than before, John returned to his old self.  The fog that seemed to surround him dissipated, and he began to smile more.  The limp was slowly eroded away and he even found a job in a clinic in town.  Life was, in a word, sweet.  For those months, what we had was almost a fairy tale._

_Then everything changed._

_It was a Thursday night in March.  I had known, and loved, John for over three years at that time.  We were having just another simple evening together, the kind that was blissfully normal._

_“Will we need knives?” John asked, opening up a drawer in the kitchen.  I was pulling plates out of a cupboard._

_“No. It’s just Chinese take out. Forks should be fine.” I placed the plates on the table and John came up beside me, giving me a kiss before finishing the setting._

_The doorbell rang._

_“I’ll get it.” I said grabbing my purse and heading down the stairs, but not before John stole another extended kiss._

_“You want water to drink?” he called after me._

_“Yes.” I said before opening the door, expecting to see the delivery boy.  But it wasn’t him._

_It was a man in a long dark coat, with dark curling hair and very high cheekbones.  He seemed oddly familiar.  He looked surprised to see me, as if I wasn’t the person he expected to answer the door._

 

**The woman standing before me was not the expected door greeter of 221B.**

**“Can I help you?” she asked.  I quickly observed what I could see of her. Mid-late 30s, airline pilot, former military service, and in a relationship of some sort given how her lips were slightly swollen as if recently kissing. “I’m sorry,” she began. “Are you here to see John? Are you a friend of his?”**

**“Yes. I’m an old friend.” I smiled and nodded.  She didn’t look too sure but turned away from the door, clearly not inviting me in till John gave clearance.**

**“John, dear. Could you come here for a moment?” she called.**

**“Coming.” Came John’s voice from inside the flat.  The sound of quick footsteps on the stairs, then a hand found its way on Mary’s waist and John appeared beside her.  He smiled at her before even looking to see who was at the door.**

**“This gentlemen says he’s an old friend of yours.” She said, nodding towards me.  John turned to look and the happy expression on his face melted into one of shock.**

**“Impossible.”**

**“John, wai-” but before I could speak, he quickly pulled Mary behind him and slammed the door shut.**

_John fell against the wall of the foyer, panting as though he’d run a marathon.  His expression was one of complete shock and disbelief.  I knelt down beside him._

_“John? Are you alright?” I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.  He looked to me, fear in his eyes._

_“You…you saw him too?”_

_“Yes. I did.” I said.  His whole body was shaking as he turned away from me and stared a hole in the rug. “John?”_

_He sprang up, tore open the door, much to the surprise of Sherlock. He took one step out of the door and hit Sherlock with such a powerful right hook it knocked the man back on the concrete.  John spun around, slammed the door behind him and stomped up the stairs.  I watched him walk away and looked back at the door, opening it after a minute._

_“Thank you, Mary.” Sherlock said stiffly as I finished dabbing some anti-bacterial ointment on his face.  John was leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, his arms crossed.  The outraged expression was still on his face._

_The silence in the room was almost palpable._

_“Can I get you something to eat, Sherlock?” I asked, hoping to break the tension._

_“No. I never eat on cases.  John must have told you that.” His eyes darted to the doctor, who merely grunted in response.  A few more minutes passed in silence, when John sighed and finally met Sherlock’s gaze._

_“Why?” he asked simply.  Sherlock blinked._

_“Why what?”_

_“Why now? Why then? Why are you back? Why did you leave? Why did you never tell me you were alive?!?” John’s voice crescendo-ed into a shout on the last word.  Sherlock was unfazed._

_“I’m back because I’m working on a case and I need your help.  Simple enough explanation.  Mary, fetch my violin.” He said, standing up and pacing about the room._

_“We don’t know where it is.  Mrs. Hudson took it several years ago.” John explained, sounding very annoyed._

_“It’s in the-” I began_

_“Foyer closet, top shelf to the left.” Sherlock and I said together.  He turned and looked at me strangely.  John looked between the two of us._

_“Same place Mrs. Hudson puts my skull when she feels the need to hide it.” Sherlock continued after a moment.  Once the violin was returned to him, Sherlock immediately prepped the strings and began playing a horribly discordant song, if it could even be called a song.  Needless to say, conversation was impossible and they had much to work out together, so I prepared to leave._

_“I’ll see you when I get back from Washington next week.” I said at the door. “Perhaps…things will be better then…?” I glanced up the stairs, and John glanced behind himself as well.  He sighed again and shook his head._

_“I don’t know, Mary.” He said.  I gently touched his cheek._

_“It will be.  I know it will.” I said, quietly smiling at him. “Isn’t that right, Sherlock?” I said, louder looking up the stairs.  Footsteps retreating from the top of the stairs could be heard and the ‘song’ began again.  John chuckled a little and leaned in to kiss me._

_“You’re right.  See you soon.”_

_“Good night.” I said, before leaving 221B._

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you haven’t figured it out, Italics is Mary Morstan, Regular is John Watson, and Bold is the world’s only consulting detective.


	5. Welcome Back

        I closed the door slowly behind Mary and then walked back up the stairs.  The horrible tune Sherlock had been playing had shifted to a more traditional song, it sounded familiar but I couldn’t tell you the name.  He was standing at the window, seemingly oblivious to the world around him but I knew he was paying attention to every detail.

        I opened up the fridge, which was full of food, not experiments, thanks to Mary.  But nothing seemed appealing so I shut the fridge and looked up to Sherlock closely observing me from the living room.

        “Do you like her?” he asked, the violin at his side.

        “Yes.” I said without hesitating.

        “Do you love her?”

         I paused, but then answered sincerely, “Yes, I do.”

         He looked at me for another moment, then picked up the violin again and began playing.  I followed him into the living room.

        “Do you like her?” I asked him.  He turned back around to face me.

        “I don’t know her.” He replied.

        “You and I both know that’s a lie.”

         He set down the violin and picked up the rosin, and began speaking quickly. “I can tell by her left thumb and the fact she’s leaving for Washington tomorrow that she is a pilot for Air England.  She carries herself with a light military air, not nearly as heavy as you, so I’m assuming RAF, which is further supported by her current job.  She has the fast reflexes and observational skills of a pilot and the confidence of an officer, but she’s not so strongly martial that she’d be a captain, so a lower officer, flight lieutenant. 

         “She wears makeup but it is not very skillfully applied, so she grew up without a strong female presence in her life, her mother died when she was young.  Her father is a Marine Captain, marine captain because that is what would drive her to join the military but the marines that would be another reason why they haven’t spoken in many years.  Her father became angry after her mother’s death, as most people do after the death of a spouse, and he was physically abusive.  The way she dressed my facial injury was highly skilled, either she gained medical experience in the military, which is unlikely as a pilot, or she was used to taking care of facial injuries like the ones from an abusive father.  The abuse is another reason why she would not speak with him for many years. 

         “While she tended my face, I noticed there was dirt under her fingernails, gardener.  However, she obviously lives nearby since she sees you all the time, so it must be a small garden.  Her hands smelled of rosemary, so herb garden.  She also likes to cook, what else would anyone do with an herb garden? 

         “Also, when she was younger, probably a teenager, she had a bought of severe depression, given the faded scars from cutting on her wrists and her parental situation.  But she has recovered and volunteers at a children’s hospital, given the butterfly drawn by someone with very poor drawing skills on her hand and the ID badge in her purse. 

         “There is dog hair on the lower third of her leg, she owns a small dog, probably a corgi.  There is dog hair around the lower part of the flat; you take care of the dog when she’s gone for long periods of time.  You like the dog; there is more hair on your sweater from where it’s sat on your lap. 

          “Given her familial background and your recent emotional trauma, marriage has not been discussed even though you have been dating for almost two years.”

          Sherlock put down the bow and perched in his seat, looking at John with a self-satisfied smirk.  John listened to the entire speech with a blank face but then asked,

          “How did you know how long we’d been dating?”

          Sherlock strode to the bookshelf, scanning the bindings and finally answered, “I like to keep tabs on those who are important to me.”

          “You were watching me?”

          Sherlock gave John a raised eyebrow look. “You should consider changing your email password to something a little more secure.”

          I could feel the skin around my neck turning red.

          “So you read my emails for three years but it didn’t once cross your mind to let me know that you were alive?” I shouted.  Sherlock’s face was passive, not betraying an emotion, whilst it felt like every emotion was on my face. “I know that you may be incapable of human emotion, Sherlock, but I…” I stopped and took a breath.  This man had hurt me more than any I had ever met, but somehow, goddammit, I didn’t want to hurt him. “You have no idea what it’s like watching your best friend jump.  No idea.  And now, now as things were finally returning to some form of normal you show up.”

           The corner of his mouth ticked with the hint of a smile. “Normal has never suited you, John.”

           “Normal is better than the HELL I went through these past three years!” I shouted again.  He had to know.  With all his stupid intelligence, he must have known how much damage he had caused.

            Sherlock blinked and looked away, like he was going to say something that he didn’t want to say.  He sighed and looked back to me, his eyebrows pushed together. “John…I-”

            The front door downstairs opened, “John? Mary?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang up the stairs. “I have your take-out.” I could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

            “Ah, wait! Wait right there, Mrs. Hudson!” I cried out in desperation. She stopped and huffed.

            “Oh, fine. Make yourselves decent.” She said. 

            “Hide in the kitchen.” I whispered tersely to Sherlock.  His nose scrunched up and his brows knitted together.

            “I don’t see how that is necessary.” He said, picking up his violin again, intending to play.

            “Do you want to give her a heart attack?” I asked, daring a glance out the door to see if she had waited.  She had a curious look on her face.

            “Mrs. Hudson has a strong constitution. I doubt she’ll even faint.” Sherlock reasoned.

            “Sherlock!” I groaned quietly.

            “Do you have company, John?” Mrs. Hudson called.

            “Just go.” I whispered again.

            “No.” he said, with an air of finality and began playing.  I rolled my eyes and heard Mrs. Hudson’s hurried steps along the hall.

             She walked in the room and looked to Sherlock, her mouth dropping open.

            “Ah, Mrs. Hudson.  Good to see you.” He smiled.  I quickly approached her, just incase she did faint.  She looked at him for a moment, then closed her mouth and calmly handed me the bag of food.  She turned around and walked back downstairs.  I looked to Sherlock, who merely seemed mildly amused like he knew something I didn’t, which was pretty often.

             Mrs. Hudson returned with a bundle of something wrapped in dusty fabric.  She handed it to Sherlock who quickly unwrapped it to reveal his skull.  He smiled and chuckled quietly before placing it on the shelf and turning back to Mrs. Hudson, who smacked his arm and said,

            “You clot!” Her voice was thick and a small sob escaped from her as she grabbed Sherlock into a hug, more tears following.  Sherlock gingerly returned it and she pulled away, shaking her head and wiping a tear away. “I need a cup of tea.” She said, walking out of the flat but pausing at the door to look back at Sherlock. “We missed you.” Then she left.

 

**John was quiet for the remainder of the evening, obviously still angry with me.  But with Mrs. Hudson constantly in and out of the flat, there was never a chance to speak with him alone.  He ate dinner and I set up another experiment, since John and Mary had cleared out all of the old ones.**

**At 22:03, John abruptly stood up and grabbed his coat. “I’m going out.” He said, walking down the stairs.  I watched him walk down the street from the window, and then picked up my violin.**

**At 22:29, I received a text on my phone.  No one, except Molly, knew my number.  But this text was not from Molly.**

******Welcome back to the war, Mr. Holmes.**

 

To Be Continued…


	6. My Way

_I opened the door to 221B the next morning and called out, “Hello? John?” But there was no answer.  I bent down and unhooked Gladdy from his leash and my little corgi quickly scampered up the stairs, in search of his friend.  Sometimes I think he even prefers John to myself.  I shut the door behind me and walked up the stairs._

_Sherlock was standing at the window, staring at the street below._

_“Have you seen John?” I asked him.  He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge my presence. “Okay then.” I said to myself, walking into the kitchen.  John wasn’t there.  I checked his bedroom, bathroom, even Sherlock’s room, but there was no John.  Something about his absence just did not seem right.  I walked back into the living room; Gladdy was tentatively sniffing the cuffs of Sherlock’s pants._

_“Sherlock.” I said, using a much sterner tone. “Where is John?” He didn’t move, there wasn’t even an acknowledgement that he had heard my voice or even knew I was there. But he knew.  I can’t tell you how I knew he knew, but I did. “I guess I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson.” I said half to myself, walking down the stairs.  But she was nowhere to be found.  A little wisp of fear uncurled itself in my gut as I pounded up the stairs, back to the statuesque Sherlock. “She’s not there.  Have. You. Seen. John?”_

_He quickly turned around and tossed something at me, which I caught.  It was his phone._

_“Call Lestrade.” He said, then returning to his window.  I looked up at him and really wanted nothing more than to throw the phone back at his head.  But instead, I took a breath and dialed._

_“Information.”_

_“Scotland Yard offices, please.”_

_“One minute.”_

_The phone rang several times till a very bored secretary picked up._

_“Scotland Yard.”_

_“May I speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade, please?”_

_“Who is calling?”_

_“…Mary Morstan, for-” I looked to Sherlock, still looking out the window. John had explained to me long ago the circumstances surrounding Sherlock’s ‘death’, so I knew I couldn’t use his name. “John Watson.”_

_The phone rang a few more times till a man answered, “Anderson.”_

_“Hi, Anderson.  It’s Mary. Is Greg in?” I could see Sherlock’s shoulders tense ever so slightly at Anderson’s name.  Anderson’s reaction at even the slightest mention of Sherlock’s name had always been strongly hostile.  Apparently, the feeling was mutual._

_“Hello, Mary. And no he’s not.” He sighed and sounded irritated. “He was supposed to come in today, so if you see him, let me know.”_

_“Alright.  Thank you, Anderson.” I hung up the phone and said, “Lestrade isn’t in the office, even though he was supposed to be there.” He didn’t move again.  I sighed and tapped my foot.  I waited for him to say something, but he remained silent, so I began my deductions. “So John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are presumably missing.  The obvious common link is you.  Your return hasn’t gone unnoticed by whoever it was that sent you away.”_

_Finally he abruptly turned around and quickly stormed over to me, standing a little too close and staring intently.  I may have been almost a foot shorter than him, but I wasn’t about to let him stare me down._

_“No one_ sent _me away.” He said, tersely._

_“Then why did you leave?” I matched his tone. His upper lip twitched. “The last words you spoke to John in person were that alone is what protects you.  At one time that may have been true, but it stopped the moment you asked John to join you.  You offered him everything; a home, a purpose, a companion; and then without any explanation, you take it all away.”_

_“He still has the flat.”_

_“Yeah, filled with so many memories of what he lost!  You weren’t here these last three years; you don’t have a clue of what John went through mourning over you.  He still isn’t the same man I met once upon a time.  Nor will he ever be.  Losing someone so close forever changes people.”_

_He straightened up and looked down at me. “You think I don’t already know this?” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly._

_“No. I think you do know this.  I think you know this all too well, but it hurt you too much to stay away.” He broke the staring contest we’d be having and walked towards his window again.  Except I followed him this time. “You can pretend that human emotion does not affect you, but I know that’s not true.  You care for John.” I grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face me.  He moved out of my grasp but was forced to look at me.  I could see the answer in his eyes._

**Her pale-green eyes widened. “That’s it.” She said quietly as she blinked a few times. “That’s why you left.  Someone was forcing you to leave, but not by threatening you.  They threatened John, they were going to kill him.” She looked back up to me and I could practically see her mind working through the logic. “But not just John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too.  They were all going to be killed unless you… And now that you’re back…oh, God.” She stepped away, her mouth dropping open a little as she comprehended the problem.**

**“Well, you’re a bit more clever than John’s past girlfriends, I have to give you that.” I looked out the window once again.**

**“You can’t lie to me, Sherlock Holmes. I can see the truth written on your face.”**

**“Would you like to know what truth I see in your face?”**

**Her lips pursed with an insult but the doorbell rang.  She glanced to the door and then said,**

**“It’s your flat.”**

**“But I’m supposed to be dead.” She rolled her eyes and went to answer the door.**

**She returned several moments later with a package in her hands.**

**“It’s addressed to me.” She placed it on the table and intended to open it.**

**“Wait!” I quickly picked it up, feeling the weight of the package, only a few grams; there was no scent of explosives so I set it back down.  Her eyes were much wider and she gingerly opened the package.  In the packing peanuts was a phone, in a pink case.  She turned it on and there was a text,**

          Come quickly, Mary love. We don’t have much time. – JW

**There was nothing else on the phone.  I pocketed it and put on my coat.**

**“Where are you going?” she asked, following me.**

**“To find John.” I started down the stairs.**

**“Wait” she called, grabbing her coat and following me. “I’m coming with.” She said as we entered the street.**

**“No, you’re not.”**

**“Yes, I am.  I’m not going to just sit at home and wring my hands in worry.  I’m coming with. Taxi!” she flagged one down and got it.  I paused and considered just sending her taxi away and finding another one myself. “Get in, Sherlock.” She said, holding up the phone that was once in my pocket.  This was not how I wanted things to go.**

 

To Be Continued…


	7. Opinions

_“St. Bart’s Hospital.” Sherlock said, after getting in the taxi.  I couldn’t help but enjoy the look of almost surprise on his face as I had held up the phone; I had always been good at pickpocketing.  I handed the phone back to him as we drove away from 221B.  He put it back in his pocket and looked out his window._

_For several blocks, the car was silent and I felt my sense of worry begin to rise up again.  What if we couldn’t get to them in time?  What if they were already torturing them?  What if-_

_“How long have you been out of the RAF?” Sherlock interrupted my thoughts.  I looked to him, a little surprised he knew.  So the amazing ability to know a person’s life story just by looking at them wasn’t just a story._

_“Uh, almost ten years.” I said.  He nodded, still not looking at me.  Silence descended on the car again.  Then he broke it again._

_“You were a flight lieutenant.” That was a statement, not a question._

_“…Yes…” How much did he know? Probably everything. Great._

_“Are you a captain for Air England?”_

_I sighed, “Not yet, and my favorite color is purple. My dog’s name is Gladstone and I love John more than any man I’ve ever met.” I spat. “Just to fill in some blanks, I’m sure your deductions left you since you probably know everything else.”_

_He remained quiet for a minute then said, “Not everything else.”_

_“No. Just everything worth knowing that you can use as ammunition to split John and I.”_

_“I’m not trying to-”_

_“Oh, please. You’ve made it painfully obvious that my presence is not welcome to you.”_

_“It’s not.”_

_“Exactly.”_

_“But that doesn’t mean I’m attempting to end your relationship.  Without you…I don’t know if John would have survived the last three years.”_

_My mind went back to a night not long after John and I started seeing each other.  John hadn’t showed up for our date and didn’t pick up his phone.  Normally, I would have just brushed it off but something told me to go to him._

_The door to the flat was unlocked; I looked around the apartment but could not find him.  I opened up the door to one of the bedrooms, and he was in there on the bed with his gun in his hand.  That image was seared into my mind; I remember the red of his sweater, the periodic table of elements on the wall, the shaking in his hands._

_“John…” I said, quietly and slowly walking into the room.  He didn’t acknowledge my presence, but was staring at the shaking gun.  I stood in front of him. “Give me the gun.” He slowly looked up at me, the moonlight highlighting the tear tracks on his face and the fear in his eyes.  “Don’t do this.  You don’t want to do this.”  He looked back down at the gun and his shoulders shuddered.  I slowly reached out for the gun. “Give me the gun.  Please, John.” My voice broke on his name._

_He slowly forced his hands to hold out the gun and I quickly took it from him, unloading it and placing it on the dresser.  My heart was racing like I had just run a marathon and I took a deep breath.  He took a shuddering breath and covered his face with his hands.  “I’m sorry, Mary.  I’m so sorry.” He said, his voice thick and somehow empty at the same time._

_I knelt before him and rested my head on his knee; a few tears escaped my eyes too. “It’s fine, John.  But know that that is never the answer.  Never even think about throwing your precious gift of life away.  Never.” He looked down at me. “You have so much to offer the world.  Don’t forget that.”  He ran his fingers through my hair and sighed._

_“I promise not to.”_

_I blinked a few times and mentally returned to the cab. “He wouldn’t have survived.” I said, trying to shake off the dark feeling that memory always gave me.  Sherlock, for the first time, was looking at me, observing every emotion that danced across my face.  He turned away, obviously understanding what I had not said, and sighed._

_“I am indebted to you.”_

_I looked at him, feeling a bit more sympathy for this man.  Obviously, the past three years had not been easy for him either.  I smiled a little._

_“I bet that’s driving you mad.” He glanced to me and then turned to his window, but I saw the hint of a smile in his eyes._

_After a few more blocks, he spoke again. “Poppies.”_

_“What?”_

_“Your hair is the color of poppies.” He said, still not looking at me._

_I looked down at my hair and then back up. “What about it?”_

_“It’s rather coincidental.”_

_“What do you me-”_

_“We’re here.” Sherlock said, jumping out of the cab before it really stopped.  I sighed and followed him into the hospital._

_I pushed open the door to the lab and found Molly sitting on a stool, staring intently into a microscope.  She was scribbling notes on a piece of paper next to her and was so caught up in her thoughts she didn’t notice me.  Her face was extremely concentrated as she sat back to think through her observations.  It was then that she saw me._

_“Mary.” She said, smiling and standing._

_“Hey, Molly.” I came around and hugged her.  John had introduced us a while ago and we had been friends almost from the start._

_“What brings you here? I thought you were going to be in America…?” her eyebrows furrowed. “Is everything alright?”_

_I shook my head. “No.  Everything is all wrong.”_

_Sherlock barged into the room, still messing with the phone. “Molly, I’m using the x-ray machine.” He said, dropping his coat on a chair and sitting down on a stool like he belonged there.  Her eyes grew wide and she looked to me._

_“Don’t worry. We know you helped him.”_

_She looked worried. “I am sorry-”_

_“Don’t be. It’s fine…well…sort of.” I paused. “John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg are missing.”_

_“Were they kidnapped?”_

_“That’s a very good question.”_

_The next few hours crawled by, Sherlock was impassive as a stone.  Testing the phone for something.  I mostly just sat around, feeling useless, as Molly returned to her work._

_“Molly, you’re taking care of the Willis case.” Sherlock said from his fixed spot in front of the microscope._

_Molly looked up from her own notes, her mouth open a little and then she nodded.  I couldn’t help but smile a little at the effect Sherlock had on her._

_“Good.” Sherlock said, making another note. “At least the autopsy will be complete, though Anderson’s crime scene notes were so atrocious it will have delayed the investigation a minimum of 3 weeks.”_

_I stretched and stood up. “I want coffee. Molly? Sherlock?”_

_“No.” Sherlock said, not looking up.  Molly smiled and nodded her head._

_“The coffee in the A & E is better than ours. Has more caffeine.” She offered. _

_“Three sugars and lots of cream?”_

_She nodded again._

_I left the morgue, thankful to have some purpose._

**The door closed behind her and I picked up the phone.**

**Where are you? – SH**

**I dropped the phone and sat back, waiting for a response.  Molly was bent over her notes, hair creating a curtain around her.  There were a few more grey hairs in her mouse brown hair since I had seen her three years ago.  She still didn’t have a serious boyfriend.  The sister-like affection between Molly and Mary was almost palpable, but not surprising.  Neither had a very strong familial background, and Molly was so agreeable she could get along with a fencepost.**

           I believe the text was directed to Mary.

**She’s indisposed. Where are you? And who is this? – SH**

**I held the phone in my hand, waiting for the next response.  Molly was staring at me, but when she saw me look up she quickly turned away, blushing. When I looked up again, Molly was watching me again.**

**“…so…do you like Mary?” She asked in her usual halting manner.  I glanced to her.  Why was everyone so keen on knowing my opinion of Mary Morstan?**

**“She’s not the first girlfriend John’s had.”**

**“But she could be the last.” Molly practically finished my sentence.  I stared at her. “I mean, nothing’s official…but Mary and I talk a lot…they’re so cute together.” She smiled.**

**“Right.” Whoever was texting back was taking an awfully slow time about it.**

**“So you dislike her?” Molly asked as the phone buzzed again.**

           Come now, Sherlock. Think and I’m sure you’ll figure out who this is. ;) – JM

**Jim Moriarty is dead. Who is this? – SH**

**“I never said that.” I said, putting the phone down.**

**“But you don’t _like_ her.” Average people were always so obsessed with how they thought of each other.  And I didn’t feel like playing Molly’s game.**

**I wrote down some instructions on a sheet of paper, ripping it out of the notebook and folding it.**

**“Molly, there’s a man on the corner of Hayne Street and Long Lane. Take this to him.” I held the paper out to her.  She sighed but eventually plucked the paper from my hand and left the morgue.**

             Since when did such a silly thing like death stop either of us, Sherly? –JM

 

             Oh, and you will want to hurry. They don’t have much time. – JM

**Do I have a deadline? – SH**

             Midnight. - JM

 

To Be Continued…


	8. Cheater

_I returned with my coffee and Molly’s, but she was no longer in the room.  Sherlock was poking around some petri dishes, not looking up when I entered and set the coffees down on the long counter._

_“So what’s the plan?” I asked, walking over to him.  He didn’t look over at me, so I waited till he went through every petri dish and then finally stood. “Sherlock, I know you don’t like me. And I’m going to be honest the feeling is rather mutual.  But John is very important to both of us so it’s best if we just get along.”_

_He blinked and sighed. “Fine.”_

_“Good. So what are we doing?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_“Nothing?”_

_“Right._ We _are doing nothing._ I _am waiting to hear back from my people.”_

_“Your people?”_

_“Yes. The homeless network.”_

_I blinked and then nodded. “Right. And how long will that take?”_

_“An hour. Maybe longer.” He strode around me and tossed the phone in his hand._

_“So where is John and the rest?”_

_“Working on that.”_

_“Oh. …who took them?” He stopped and looked at me._

_“Moriarty.”_

_“I thought he was dead.”_

_“Jim may be dead…but Moriarty. No, he’ll never die.”_

_Molly returned a little while later and returned to her work.  Sherlock and I ended up basically sitting around as we waited to hear back from his ‘people’.  As the sun was setting, a homeless man walked into the morgue, handed Sherlock a slip of paper.  Sherlock handed him a note.  The man smiled a toothless smile and walked out of the morgue._

_“So where are we going?” I said, picking up my coat and handing him his.  He paused but then took the coat from me._

_“Outer reaches of London. What time is it?”_

_“9:45.” Molly said from her desk.  Sherlock frowned and walked out the door.  I waved goodbye to Molly and ran after him._

_“Can I ask you something?” I asked as we drove through the streets of London._

_“You’re going to ask me, whether I want you to or not.” He replied._

_“Back in the cab ride from 221B to Bart’s, you mentioned poppies and how they were coincidental.  What did you mean?”_

_He glanced to me than said, “Poppies are traditionally the flower given at funerals.  As a symbol of eternal life and comfort through mourning.  In a way, you are John’s poppy.”_

_I nodded and looked out the window.  We were silent for the rest of the ride, but it wasn’t quite as chilly a silence.  It was at least polite, not quite reaching friendly by any stretch of the imagination.  But the silence wasn’t helping to keep my fears at bay._

**The cab pulled up the address, which was an old tunnel on the outskirts of London.  I got out with Mary close behind.**

**“I suppose there’s no use in telling you to wait here.”**

**“Not a chance.”**

**“At least stay behind me.”**

******The tunnel was empty, obviously not used very often which would explain how my homeless network found it so quickly.  It was very dark and the sound of water dripping echoed in the space.  This was not the best of places because there would be only two ways out; either back the way we came in or straight towards Moriarty.**

In my army days, I had been lucky.  I may have been wounded but I was never taken prisoner.  The men I treated who had been POWs, there was a…haunted look in their faces.  I can understand why now, sitting for hours on end, not knowing what moment was going to be your last.  The mental stress would be enough to drive a man mad, let alone the rifle barrel that had been sitting against the back of my neck this whole time.

            I looked across our little circle to Mrs. Hudson, who had long stopped crying, but was shaking slightly.  There was a cut on her forehead from when they had beaten her to stop crying.  Greg caught my eye.  He seemed to be holding together a little better, but was very bewildered.  He didn’t even know that Sherlock was alive.  We were all sitting in metal folding chairs, arms tied behind us and each had our very own gunman.  It would have been completely dark except for the metal barrel in the center with a fire inside, casting shadows over the walls.

            I heard distant footsteps and strained to see whom they belonged to, but the barrel dug deeper into my neck, forcing my head down.

            “John.” I heard Mary’s voice.  Mary? Not caring about the gun, I looked up.

            “Mary?” she was alive and had brought help. “Sherlock?” I had never been so happy to see either of them.  We were going to survive.  But then came a voice I hadn’t heard in three years.

            “Welcome, Sherlock. Guess I’m not the only one who can cheat death.”

            “That is something I hope to rectify.” Sherlock said, pulling out a gun.

 

To Be Continued…


	9. Reality and Lies

**There he was.  Moriarty.  He was 17 pounds leaner than when I last saw him on the roof of the hospital.  There were dark circles under his eyes, and that sardonic grin on his face.  He was leaning against the wall and began to slowly walk forward, a hand tracing over the brick.**

**“You might want to rethink that, Mr. Holmes.” Another voice said behind me.  I turned and Mary was on her knees, hands behind her head, and a tall man holding a rifle to her head.**

**“Sorry, Sherlock.” She said, glancing up at me with a grim expression.**

**“You see, Sherlock, we have some unfinished business, you and I.”  Moriarty began again, stopping beside John.  He patted his head and rested his hand on John’s shoulder.  John glared up at Moriarty.  The gesture may have been to infuriate John, but it seemed to also have a practical purpose.**

**“You’re shaking.”**

**Moriarty smiled a little.  He held out his hand, the tremble was visible even in the dark.  He looked at his hand.**

**“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he put his hand back in his pants pocket.  “That’s why I have Moran.  He’ll make sure lovely Mary there is dead.”**

**“Let them all go.  This is between you and me.”**

**Moriarty laughed, it echoed through the tunnel. “You see, I would,  Sherlock.  They haven’t done anything wrong; they’re too stupid. But the only way to get you to do anything is to threaten them.  Nothing else motivates you.” He shrugged and staggered forward a little more.**

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock asked, his face grave.

            “Easy, peasy. Take that gun in your hand and kill yourself.” Moriarty said, simply.  There was a smile in his voice.

            “Don’t I get a last request?” Sherlock’s face was impassive, but I could almost see his mind flying at the speed of light to solve this problem.  Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. “Your men leave.  I can only take so many idiots in a room.” Sherlock continued.  Moriarty rolled his head side to side then answered,

            “Moran stays.”

            “Fine.”

The three gunmen behind us lifted their guns and sauntered away into the blackness.  For a moment there was a pause as everyone adjusted to the new set up of the game, then Moran forced Mary on her feet and moved her next to me.  I looked down at her, and she up at me.  Her face was calm but her eyes were frantic, I wished I could have reached out for her but my hands were tied.  Moran took his place behind us, everyone within easy shooting distance.

            Sherlock cocked his gun but pointed it back at Moriarty.  Moriarty snapped his fingers and Moran forced the barrel of his rifle so deeply into Mary’s neck she was bent all the way over.

            “No!” I shouted, afraid he was actually going to shoot her right then.  But Moran looked up to Moriarty who was staring at Sherlock.  Sherlock’s finger tightened over the trigger, snapping it back.  I winced expecting a bang, but a small flame spouted from the end of the gun.

 

**Moriarty’s face was confused for a moment, and he looked back to me.  I couldn’t help but smile a little at his confusion.  Apparently his fake suicide hadn’t just affected his motor skills.**

**“You should learn the difference between reality and lies.” I said, tossing the trick gun onto the concrete.  Moriarty was watching the gun, as I quickly pulled out a real gun and shot at him.  I didn’t have time to aim to kill, so I got his shoulder.  He cried out and fell backwards onto the ground.**

**Kicking over the barrel of fire towards him provided enough distraction that Mary rolled out of the way, kicking the legs out from beneath Moran.  He was knocked over and Mary grabbed his rifle expertly cocking it and pointing at Moran.  But Moran pulled out a knife and held it to John’s neck.**

**We all stopped.**

**Mary had the rifle pointed at Moran who had John by the hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck to the sharp blade.  Moriarty was picking himself up, holding a hand to his profusely bleeding shoulder.  I pointed the gun at his forehead this time.**

**“The final problem. I believe I’ve solved it.”  I said.  Moriarty smiled and snickered, but Moran was much less deranged.  He looked at the situation, dropped his knife and stood up.  Moriarty turned to look at the tall man.**

**“You don’t pay me enough to die for you.” He said, turning and walking away.  Moriarty’s shoulders grew tense, then he turned to me.**

**“Catch you later, Sherlock.” He said with a chuckle, before walking after Moran.  Both Mary and I had our guns trained on him till he was swallowed by darkness.**

            _I dropped the gun and ran to John, quickly untying his hands.  I tried to give him a chance to stretch his muscles and rub his wrists, but I grabbed him in a hug before he could finish._

_“John! Oh, John.” Tears ran down my face.  He gripped me as tightly as I was holding him, burying his face in my neck.  Holding him again, after it had seemed we were going to die, there is no better feeling in this world._

_I could hear Sherlock freeing Lestrade and the two of them helping Mrs. Hudson, but I didn’t want to leave John’s arms.  The sharp echo of a gunshot cause us all to jump up.  We all watched the darkness, waiting for an attack, but nothing changed._

_Lestrade looked at Sherlock, shaking his head slightly._

_“I don’t know quite what to say.” He said._

_“Save the apologies and gratitude. I’d rather hear about the Neely case.” Sherlock said.  Lestrade looked a little shocked, but then seemed to remember just whom he was dealing with._

_“Right.” Lestrade nodded “I think we need to phone the police first.”_

_I helped Mrs. Hudson back in her chair and John didn’t leave my side till the police showed up and he was treated in an ambulance.  Thankfully, none of them had any serious injuries, but they were all given orders for bed rest._

To Be Continued…


	10. Bouquet

            Anderson’s and Donovan’s faces were priceless when they pulled up and saw Sherlock chatting with Lestrade.  They were the ones to find Moriarty’s body in the depths of the tunnel, a bullet through his head.  Somehow it didn’t seem right that it was Moran who ended Moriarty’s miserable existence.  But then, I don’t think any death I could think of would be fitting for the Spider.  I found Sherlock as they put the body into a car to be taken to the morgue.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Fine.” He answered quickly.  Silence.  Our last conversations before I had been captured drifted to my mind.  The anger, the frustration, the unspoken apologies.  It was all there, waiting to remerge. After a minute, he said,

            “…I apologize for leaving you with any explanation.” I looked to him, completely shocked to be hearing such words from Sherlock.  He was looking around, anywhere but at me. “I hope you understand that it was the only way.”

            “…I do now… Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to punch you in the face.”

            A flicker of a smile on his face.

            “Of course.” He replied.  We were silent for a bit then it was my turn to speak,

            “Thank you.” He looked to me. “For staying with Mary.”

            “You’re a much better companion.” He said, quickly.  I couldn’t help but smile.

            “That doesn’t surprise me.” He looked down to me, his eyebrows dipping. “You never did much like people who were similar to you.  Mycroft…and now Mary.”

            “We are not similar.” Two voices said at once.  Mycroft was standing behind us, looking very calm and too well dressed for a crime scene.

            “Mycroft.” Sherlock said, tersely.

            “So nice of you to reappear, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, smiling pleasantly but there was a hint of steel to the voice.

            “Don’t you have some sort of scandal to deal with, Mycroft?”

            “Yes, actually.” He surveyed the crowd. “The reappearance of a certain ‘fake’ genius is going to cause more than a few shock waves.  My PR team is already prepping a statement. You always were rather dramatic.”

            Sherlock glared at his brother then relaxed into a smirk.

            “How did you find us, Mycroft?” I asked.  He smiled indulgently down at me.

            “You’d be amazed how quickly news travels. The gossip mill of Scotland Yard is on the same level as a sorority house, or a small church.” Mary finally finished giving her report to Donovan and arrived next to us.

            “Ah, Miss Morstan.” He shook her hand. “Thank you for taking John’s place in keeping track of my little brother.”

            “I don’t need a _handler_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock said, through clenched teeth.  Mary looked a little confused but nodded anyway.

            “It’s fine.  Anything to find John faster.” She said, entwining her fingers with mine.

            “How endearing.” Mycroft said, another one of his ‘smiles.’ “I’m afraid I must leave now.  And Sherlock, Mummy is going to have a fit when she finds out you’re alive.  So you will be the one to tell her, in person.” He sauntered away, swinging his umbrella.  Sherlock frowned, which was understandable.  I had only met Mrs. Holmes once, and she was a fearsome woman to behold.

            Finally, we were released from the crime scene.  Sherlock, Mary and I took the same cab, going straight to 221B so she could pick up Gladstone and then return to her flat.  Sherlock opened the door and there sat the corgi, happily staring up at him.  He stooped to give the dog a single scratch behind the ears and then continued on his way up the stairs, with Gladstone turning to follow him.

            “I think Sherlock just found himself a new best friend.” Mary said, smiling as she watched her dog hop up the stairs after the detective.

 

            **The dog sat down in the middle of the living room and watched as I picked up my violin.  The tongue was hanging out of its mouth and the expression on its face was one of utter excitement.  It was sort of endearing in an idiotic way.  I could hear the front door shut and see John join Mary out on the sidewalk in front of the idling cab.**

**The window was open and I just barely heard their goodnight.**

**“John…whatever is on your mind it’s best if you just say it.”**

**John paused, like he always did when he was about to say something that was weighing heavily upon him.**

**“Would you…” he sighed. “Would you marry me?”**

**Mary’s eyebrows rose with shock, then a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  The hint of a blush ran along her hairline.**

**“Ask me in a week, when we’re not running high off of adrenaline and excitement.”**

**“Oh. Right.” John nodded, gaining a stiffer military posture.  That was obviously not the answer he had been hoping for.**

**“But I can pretty much tell you that my answer then, and now, will be yes.”  I turned away from the window and began to play.**

_The song_ Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring _on a single violin began filtering from the flat above us.  I couldn’t help but smile as John kissed me, the familiar tune sending visions of bridal gowns dancing in my head.  Just before I got in the cab, I looked up to the flat and saw Sherlock standing there, with the echo of a smile on his face._

_Ten days later, three days after John officially asked me on a moonlight walk by the Thames, I came back to my flat and found a gift on the kitchen counter.  It was a bouquet of poppies, not the bright red kind but the softer orange.  There was a simple card attached and all it read inside was,_

**Congratulations. And thank you. – SH**

The End.


	11. Epilogue

            Mary screamed in pain. “John!!” she cried out, looking around desperately.  John looked down, helpless to do anything for her.  He glanced to Sherlock who was standing nearby, watching the entire scene with detachment.  Seeing his wife in such pain made John want to do something, anything to fix it, but there was nothing to do.  All he could do was hold her hand.

            “John!! God, it hurts!” she threw her head back. “This is your fault!” she accused, gripping his hand with more strength than John thought possible.

            “You’re almost there, Mrs. Watson! I can see the head.” The doctor urged from his position at the foot of the bed, with a view that Mary didn’t even want to think about. “Breathe! Push!”

            Mary’s face screwed in concentration and John found himself holding his breath.  Sound faded away to silence, till it was broken by the cries of a newborn child, his child.

            “It’s a girl!” the doctor proclaimed, putting the slippery tiny body on Mary’s stomach.  Mary laughed with elation, her face glowing with sheer joy.  John found himself also reveling in the highest parts of happiness.  He kissed Mary as the nurses quickly cleaned off their new baby girl, swaddling her in a pink blanket. 

            They handed the tiny bundle to Mary who marveled at the tiny face peaking out of the blanket.  A dusting of fuzzy red hair covered her head as she yawned.  John had never seen a more beautiful child in his life.  It was like seeing the sun for the first time, glorious.

            “She’s perfect.” John said, looking between the two most important women in his life.  He didn’t know what he would do without either of them. Somehow there were no words to describe how he was exactly feeling but he settled with, “I love you.” Mary looked up at John, a tear of joy escaping her eye.

            “I love you too.”

             John looked up briefly from the joy that surrounded his new family to see that Sherlock had left the room.

            Sherlock was sitting in the waiting room, texting on his phone, when John entered a while later.  He looked up and immediately noticed the tiny bundle in John’s arms.

            “Congratulations, John.” Sherlock said, standing and giving a rare warm smile.

            “Thank you, Sherlock.” He looked down at the baby and smiled again. “Mary’s asleep and I didn’t want to put her in the nursery just yet.  Want to hold her?”

             John couldn’t help but smile again at his friend’s rather bewildered expression as Sherlock held his daughter.  Sherlock seemed torn between not wanting to hold her too tightly or too loosely.  It almost seemed like he was worried he might break her.  Eventually, he found a comfortable spot in his long arms.  Sherlock closely observed the small face.

            “What’s her name?”

            “Jennifer, after Mary’s mum and Poppy, for obvious reasons. Jennifer Poppy Watson.  We’re going to call her Poppy.”

            Sherlock nodded gravely.  Poppy opened her eyes and stared back at Sherlock, the corner of his mouth turned upwards in a smile. “She has your nose, John.”

            John laughed. “Guess she’ll have to reconcile herself with that later on in life.” Sherlock gingerly handed Poppy back to her father and then shook his hand.

            “I’m happy for you.” Sherlock said haltingly, seeming a little unsure of just how to act.  John smiled again, that seemed to be all he was doing.

            “Do you mind if she calls you Uncle Sherlock?” John asked.  Sherlock blinked a few times and seemed taken a back. Familial relations had never been a strong point for Sherlock. “I’ll let you think about it.” John said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and leaving the room.

             Later that night when Mary was still asleep and John had passed out in one of the chairs in the room, Sherlock stood watch like a sentry.  He watched the tiny Poppy, her small chest rising and falling with breaths and her miniscule fingers moving of their own accord.  _Uncle Sherlock…_ , he asked himself.  He reached a long finger towards Poppy’s hand and she grasped it with surprising strength.  He looked down at her, he had never understood people’s fascination with babies, until now.  Somehow this child was different, even though Sherlock couldn’t come up with a logical explanation for why Poppy was different.  But she was.   _Uncle Sherlock_ , the question arose again and this time Sherlock slowly nodded.

             “Sherlock?” John’s groggy whisper came as he sat up.  Sherlock still watched Poppy.

             “She may call me Uncle Sherlock on one condition.”

             “And what’s that?” John asked, already moving back into sleep, content in the fact it was his best friend keeping watch.

             “I get to teach her the science of deduction.”

            “Whatever you want, Sherlock.” John drifted away.  Sherlock smiled as he looked down at his niece. 


End file.
